


Like Music

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, None - Freeform, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 10:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/797507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Music

## Like Music

#### by T.Verano

Author's website: <http://home.earthlink.net/~t.verano>  
  
Thank you, my wonderful and lovely friend JadeBear, for reading this and making it a better ficlet, and for amping up my courage to post it. (This bears repeating, JB -- I'm grateful for all of that, and more. You make me laugh and get teary-eyed - and all warm inside - and I'm not sure exactly what I ever did to get lucky enough that you found me.)  
  
This story is a sequel to: 

* * *

The first thing he would be aware of was warmth. He'd be lying on his side and there'd be warmth all along his back, the kind of warmth that was better than any other warmth because the shape of it was muscle and the solidness of it was Jim. 

Warmth. 

Heat. 

Heat against the back of his shoulder, that was breath and lips and tongue, that was morning stubble rubbing against skin. A trail of heat that moved languorously toward his neck. 

More heat, hard and slippery, moving slowly against his ass. 

But it would be the warmth of the hand resting on his hip that would bring him awake just enough to move, to pull his leg up and shift a little. 

Sometimes - other times, when he actually was awake - he had to grin at what a conditioned response that had become. Anywhere. Anytime. They could be making their way through a swarm of people on a sidewalk and Jim's hand would slide from the small of his back over to his hip, and Blair's body would start to react, automatically. And then Jim's hand would squeeze, just hard enough, before falling innocently away; _not_ the touch of a lover on a busy public street, just a friend helping a friend keep his balance in a crowd. And they'd look at each other, grinning. 

But here and now, he wouldn't be _awake_ yet. Not really. Just aware of the heat of Jim behind him. And of Jim's lips, which would be against his collarbone, now. 

And he would never be quite awake enough at this point to anticipate the momentary coolness of Jim's slick fingers, the coolness that would bring him further up than he wanted to be, just yet. 

Or would, if Jim didn't _know_ that. If Jim's lips wouldn't already be moving hotly against his neck, a languid fire that captured most of his slowly unfolding awareness. 

And then Jim's lips would be traveling up across his jaw, up to the corner of his mouth. Would be moving gently - shaping words, it always felt like, as Jim would begin to ease into his body. And awareness would become the movement of Jim's lips, whispering _something_ against his skin. And being slowly filled with Jim's warmth. 

Then more unheard words would be brushing against the corner of his lips, and Jim would be moving again; so gently that Blair wouldn't be able to tell when it was that he started to move, too; or even exactly when Jim's hand started to stroke him in that impossibly slow rhythm. 

And even though he wouldn't be remembering that long-ago weekend right now, wouldn't be remembering the woman, or her passion for romantic clichs; he'd thought then that they'd done a pretty good job of finding ways to make love at the pace of the music. 

Before Jim. Before this. 

But right now he wouldn't be remembering her, or that weekend, or remembering the sound of Bolero on her CD player, because there wouldn't be any music on Jim's CD player; not right now. There wouldn't be anything to hear except the sound of the two of them, together. 

He'd be turning his head now to find Jim's mouth with his own. And Jim's hand would begin to move with more insistence, delicious insistence, as Jim's hips would begin to move with more, delicious, insistence. 

And they would both be breathing more quickly now, but in tempo. 

Always in tempo, like this. 

And he would feel that moment when the key changed for both of them, when the crescendo became demanding, demanding soon, became demanding _soon,_ demanding _now;_ and he would be feeling _everything,_ be aware of everything now, of Jim, of everything about Jim, forever. 

Forever. 

...And then there would just be sound of the two of them breathing. 

And the warmth. 

Jim's body fitted against his back. 

Jim's lips against the back of his neck. 

The warmth of Jim's arm. Jim's hand, resting against his face. 

And he would let the final silent echoes become words in his own whispers, his lips finding the palm of Jim's hand and whispering against Jim's skin. Silently. 

And it would be just like the music. 

Jim would hear. 

* * *

End 

Like Music by T.Verano: t.verano@earthlink.net  
Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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